


Love Forever True

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23359189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: 'Love Forever True', was what she swore, that earnest young girl.  A lovely sentiment, surely, one to bring a warm smile to the face, a sweet song to the lips, and a yearning in the wistful heart.  Or, in the case of Lieutenant Craig Garrison and his men - a chill to freeze the marrow of their bones.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 2





	1. Once Upon A Time

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a GG story. But since the story really began many, many years ago, long before the men formed a team - indeed, long before they were even born - it takes them awhile to make their appearance.

To the locals, the Portells were 'foreigners', fairly new to Tremaine House (at least new as far as land-ownership was counted in the area, most of the local families having dwelt on their own lands there for several generations), having inherited it several years ago when Claude Portell's wife inherited it from her Great-aunt Agnes. But then, Madame Portell WAS a relative of some sort to the old family, so perhaps they weren't counted as TOTAL foreigners.

Supposedly that inheritance was a gesture made in consideration of Madame Portell having obediently named her third (quite unexpected) child, Agnes, in the elderly woman's honor (and at Agnes Tremaine Rousseau's firm hint/suggestion/veiled order/outright bribe that it should be so). 

The letter had come before Marianne was even pregnant, though once she opened and read the unexpected correspondence, she'd written back to the ancient woman with some alacrity. 

*"Dear Great-Aunt Agnes. Although I had not given any thought to having another child, my son David now being eighteen and my daughter Patrice nearly eight, certainly I would be most honored to be allowed to name any girl child 'Agnes'. Alas, I do not think that will come to pass, but please know my thoughts are certainly in favor of the idea."*

While that didn't rise to the point of going to the head of the line for the proposed inheritance, she thought it MIGHT get her at least something when the old woman passed on. That she missed her courses once, twice, then thrice immediately after posting the letter was rather a marvel, to her way of thinking, one she gloated over secretly. SURELY she would be the first to present that long-forgotten great-aunt with her stated desire, a name-sake. 

And so it was to be. 

Funny, although that same hint/suggestion, etc had been sent by letter to the other remaining far-flung members of her remaining family, none of the other (admittedly few) possible inheritors had been interested in doing any such thing. No, not even with the promised rewards. Perhaps they were not as grasping, as ambitious, or perhaps they were a little more cautious - who knows. In any case, that left the field clear for Marianne Portell to scoop the pot at Agnes Rousseau's death, which, interestingly enough, occurred not one hour after Marianne's younger daughter was born and her name 'Agnes Marie Portell' formally announced to the household.

Well, Marianne had no silly hesitations, not over some old family stories, and she firmly told her husband just that. The house, the lands, the home farms, plus the very hefty income that went with the place - that was hardly something to be sneezed at, after all! 

"Claude, you wouldn't believe all the silly nonsense I heard as a little girl; far too silly to repeat, then or now!! Well, I always had too much sense to put any credence in any of that, and too much NOW to do us out of the possibility of inheriting from Aunt Agnes. And no, I don't remember her all that well, had no correspondence before her letter, but what does that matter? She obviously remembered ME. And the birth papers will show 'Agnes Marie Portell'. If we decide to let the child call herself just 'Marie' later on, that shouldn't affect the inheritance, should it?" 

For although Marianne remembered the odd stories of the Tremaine House estate, stories she did not deign to share with her curious husband, she also remembered just how wealthy her great-aunt supposedly was; she thought it was well worth the unexpected signs of pregnancy, then nine months later, the appearance of a daughter, long after she'd thought herself finished with all that business.

There were three children born to Marianne and Claude Portell - David Claude, the oldest by nineteen years, and the only son. Patrice Dova, the older daughter, some twelve years younger than David; she also was named for a great aunt, but no inheritance came attached, a mixed blessing perhaps. And then there was Agnes Marie, the youngest.

Agnes Marie Portell - what can you say about someone like Agnes? And yes, she DID prefer to be called Agnes, in fact, insisted upon it from the time she could talk.

She was, as stated, the youngest of three children and certainly the one who garnered the most smiles and pats and approving attention. Yes, perhaps she was a little spoiled. In fact, it could honestly be said that Agnes had never heard a harsh reprimand, seen a serious frown leveled in her direction. 

Well, why should she have? She was all anyone could have wished for - quietly cheerful, obedient, not one to whine or nag or come running with tales about the others, gladly accepting of the attention and favors that unceasingly came her way.

Agnes had never had any true desire of hers refused, never went to bed pouting because of being thwarted, never going into a decline because of some need being unmet.

Well, there were few, if any, needs or desires unmet, not for long. 

Even when she was nine and her cousin Bethannie arrived to select a new pony from the estate farms. Even when Bethannie's eyes lit on the grey-spotted Dodie, the very pony that Agnes had decided should be HERS, (though perhaps not before Bethannie had claimed her), there was no question of what would happen. 

No, Agnes didn't cry or let her lips tremble; but that slight wistful look was duly noted, and Bethannie was quickly urged by all and sundry to select the pretty silky-coated chestnut Molly instead. 

Bethannie had been the one to pout and cry and refuse to switch, but by the next day, had come to the conclusion that she really preferred Molly anyway, said she'd had bad dreams in which Dodie had glowing red eyes and long wicked teeth, had chased and bit and kicked at her! 

Agnes' father Claude had nodded knowingly, told Marianne, "chit's most likely feeling guilty for being stubborn about it in the first place! Always did think Carl spoiled the girl! Pleased to see Agnes being so gracious about it. Even thanking Bethannie right prettily for agreeing to the swap."

So Molly went home with Bethannie, and Dodie became Agnes's own. Everyone was happy for Agnes, to see that bright smile on that sweet face once more. Well, except for her older sister Patrice who was just too busy searching for her latest missing kitten to get involved in the whole pony drama. But everyone else.

No, Agnes really wanted for nothing. Even when she chose to wander the house alone, instead of playing the games and lessons her caregivers offered, no one denied her the right. And when she returned, her skirts mussed with cobwebs, her attendants just exclaimed with upturned eyes but quickly whisked her into clean clothes straightaway, and gave her a pat and a smile to show they weren't really annoyed. They even pretended not to see the musty old books, the journals, she brought back with her, hid under her mattress. 

Well, no sense getting the child all upset, was there? The old housekeeper had always stressed that; "no SENSE in getting Agnes upset." Had used those very words, time and time again as she gave them their weekly orders, in fact.

So, Agnes had an ideal life - an ideal childhood, anyway, with all prospects of having an ideal life thereafter, and she had the ideal husband all picked out far earlier than you might have thought likely.

Leland Masters was her brother's best friend. She had loved him with all her young heart ever since David had brought him home on one of the university breaks when she only three. Leland was a handsome, charming twenty-one year old, and laughingly took a paper-wrapped candy from his pocket on their meeting and offered it to her, with a bow and a gracious, "for a most fair young lady." When he proceeded to pull a coin from her ear, then to present her with a paper bouquet of flowers he'd somehow conjured out of thin air, she'd become his devoted admirer, toddling after him wherever he would go.

By the time she was six, over a nursery tea shared by Leland and David in honor of her birthday, she had proclaimed that she was going to marry him when she grew up and sternly cautioned him that he was supposed to WAIT for her, not go being silly about other ladies. That what they had was "love forever true, Leland. I swear I would be most upset if you were to forget that."

Leland laughed and pulled her dark brown braid, but kindly, and told her that "if I ever WERE to decide to love a lady, I'd certainly consider you, Agnes. But don't wait for me, sweet; it's not likely I ever would. I'm what they call a 'life-long bachelor'; I can't see me changing that, even for such a prize as yourself."

Later, as she approached her teens, she had pursued him in the gauche and bumbling way only a love-stricken school girl could. She drew his image in her sketchbook time and again, intertwined their initials in pastel hearts in all of her books. She'd written poetry to his pale blue eyes and flaxen hair, even insisting on reading it aloud at a family gathering for his birthday, much to everyone's indulgent amusement and his flustered embarrassment. 

Her mother had been indulgent with the fancy. "Yes, a trifle old for her, of course, but perhaps she'll come around. There's nothing gained by upsetting her by contradicting her. You don't want her going off into a snit."

Her father had agreed they didn't want Agnes upset, but had disagreed with just standing aside without saying anything. He shook his head, garrumphed awkwardly while he sat Agnes beside him on the sofa in his office, fed her sweetmeats out of a paper cone, and tried to get her to give it up. 

"Can't see that, pet, you know - Leland, I mean. You just wait, we'll find you just the right husband, when the time comes. Leland ain't looking around for a wife, in any case. Doubt he ever will; too much like his Uncle Leopold for that." 

Not that he intended to explain about Uncle Leopold's interests being other than in the petticoat line. That was more information than the girl needed to know.

Agnes had rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose at that. Of COURSE Leland would need a wife at some time, and she would be perfect for him. After all, she had always known that he would be perfect for HER.

On his part, Leland had always been kind, but oddly discouraging, incomprehensibly (at least to HER eyes) seeing her only as a child from his vast distance of eighteen years her elder. And yet, Leland had never become attached to any young lady, certainly never become engaged or married, so Agnes knew she had only to bide her time.

Her brother David had consoled her, lovingly but carefully, for while she had always been a favorite of his, he was still cautious about making her angry. There was just something that warned against that, though he tried to dismiss that as just an odd fancy. Still, he steadfastly discouraging her from such thoughts, thinking he might be the only one who had a chance of being successful in that endeavor. Certainly he was the one who best understood, had the most invested in keeping the peace. 

"He is not for you, little sister, nor will he ever be. You'll find your right someone someday, someone much more suited to you. Now stop teasing Leland and leave him be. You're making him uncomfortable, and that's not very nice, you know. He's my very best forever-friend, and I don't want him feeling shy of coming here because of your dotings."

David and everyone else urged her to turn her thoughts back to her school books, for even now, at thirteen, she was three years and more away from being released from the schoolroom and her music lessons and her daydreaming to enter the world of those vying to find or be found by the right marriage. 

She hadn't agreed; was sure that Leland had never married for one reason and one reason only - that he was destined for her, and her for him, and deep inside him he recognized that. She just KNEW that!

It had gotten so that David had started bringing Leland home less and less, for the uncomfortable feeling brought about by Agnes mooning over him, trying out her awkward flirting games with him. That never occurred to her, though, that that was the reason, denied it when it was explained to her. Agnes was becoming more than a little annoyed with David, knowing he could have talked Leland into visiting if he really TRIED! She was even beginning to think David was jealous, that he didn't WANT his 'forever friend' shifting his affection over to Agnes! 

Much to her disappointment, it was only on special occasions did she even see Leland now, this latest at the engagement dinner of Agnes's older sister Patrice to Leland's younger brother Michael. She took every opportunity to engage his attentions during that visit, but he avoided her, and it seemed everyone aided him in that avoidance.

And then, that second afternoon, she'd followed them, thinking of concocting some imaginary errand for David so that she might be alone with Leland, coax him into thinking of her as a woman grown. She even had in mind convincing him to a discreet engagement, one not announced to the world, but one understood between the two of them and the family. 

It was then that Agnes had found them together in the shuttered gazebo, Leland and David, sharing caresses, sharing a kiss that could not be mistaken for anything but what it was, affection shared between long-time lovers, and her love turned to hatred for the both of them. They did not know she had seen, for she had crept away, then ran away, as fast as her trembling legs would carry her, to the stables, to saddle her mare and storm off across the fields.

Her screaming accusations would have destroyed them, all three of them, if anyone else had heard, but there was only the emptiness of the sky and her outraged heart and her beleaguered, sweat-stained, whip-marked mare that heard. Even the parrot who could usually be found on her shoulder, the one she laughingly called 'Goety' after the black cat another Agnes had held in such esteem for the valuable assistance it gave her in certain dark matters, had fled in terror of her uncontrolled anger. 

So she returned to the house, harshly ordered the housekeeper to move that new portrait of Agnes - the one completed only the prior month - into her bedroom "so that I might study it for accuracy". 

And so the portrait was moved to stand against one of the walls, but instead of studying IT, she spent the night studying the books and journals she had treasured for so long. 

Then she prepared the curse as it had been written in the journal of her great-great-aunt for whom she had been named, one of those she'd brought from the attics during her early wanderings - drew the circle and wrote the symbols in the ink she'd prepared from ash and certain contributions from Patrice's current kitten (the latest in a long stream of kittens belonging to her older sister to go missing. Patrice had the worst luck with her pets, of course, but Agnes had to admit SHE found them most useful), said the words, burned the offerings in the silver tray on top of her dressing table, let three drops of her own blood seal the bargain. 

She penned the accusing letter that would bring ruin to Leland and David and laid it carefully on top of the hope chest she'd been preparing since she was ten - a hope chest containing embroidered wedding linens with her initials and his. 

She swore, even as she tied the rope to the ceiling hook of her bedroom that had previously held a pretty ivy plant, that she would have her vengence - that she would, if necessary, spend eternity getting her vengence. That such love as her brother and his friend had together, a love that had left HER bereft, denied her what she had already swore would be hers, what SHOULD have been hers - that love she would take and use, then destroy, the love and the lovers. 

And if she could not destroy it, them? If they somehow escaped and stayed too far out of her reach? Well, at least she would be certain it would not dwell HERE, at Tremaine House! Here, it would be as SHE wanted, just as it always HAD been! Had not each and every Agnes of the Tremaine's found it so, MADE it so, one way or the other? Whether they had been called Agnes, or Agniya, Agné - Agneeta, Agnesa, or any of the other variations - truly, they were all much alike, if not the same.

The letter was never found, it and the tray with its evidence whisked away by a horrified chamber maid, one whose family had served the Tremaine estate for many a generation, one who recognized what she was seeing. The portrait was moved back to the gallery, though now draped in black gauze, and everyone avoided looking at it too closely. Well, the eyes, you see; for some reason they seemed to look back at you, and that was most unsettling.

And her death was perhaps considered a bewildering tragedy by most of the immediate family, but with a private funeral and internment to the edge of the family plot, no one to openly question, her death was put about as an appalling riding accident to anyone else. Well, what with her mare found dead in the hedgerow of the near field, the broken branch apparently having torn poor Jenna's throat away so that she bled to death, it seemed reasonable. Yes, a riding accident, surely, though an odd coincidence that sweet Dodie, Agnes' pony she had outgrown, had apparently died much at the same time with convulsions in her stall.

And if Agnes had been someone other than who she was, if she had been born in a different family, had chosen to die in a different place, perhaps it would have ended there, in that moment when she slid the noose over her head, tightened it, and stepped gracefully off the pile of boxes she had arranged so carefully. 

But she wasn't someone else - she was Agnes Marie Portell, a girl child born of a line of women known for some small degree of talent and an overly-large aptitude for willfulness and vengence. And she chose to die at Tremaine House, a house with some degree of history of its own. 

Tremaine House, where once a favor was asked, a favor was granted, if it met the twisted humor of the unseen one who 'favored' that place. For so it was, and so it had been for many a hundred years and far more. Well, among those who had resided here, it had long been known there were things to be avoided, due to some past 'incident' or the other. Agné, Agnesa, Agniya, there was some such name attached to each and every such incident, as the locals well knew.

They knew there should be no weddings under that roof, or both the bride and the first-born of the new union, son or daughter, would die before the christening. And that, even if the wedding was held elsewhere, the first boy child born of the master would never live to sit at the head of the table, so there must be a not-meant-to-be-heir, an heir, and a spare - three instead of the usual two mandatory boy children. And that there should not BE a third daughter to any union, for that daughter would bring near ruin to the family, a ruin only avoided by that daughter's banishment or death. 

And there was more known, perhaps only to the family, including that no girl child should be given the name of Agnes or any variation thereof (though for some reason, this was forgotten, time and time again), and after this, there would be even more known.

Now it would be known, at least among a choice few, that vengence had become manifest, had become more than a goal set forth by anger. It had now become 'Vengence', an entity that stood on its own two feet, walked the halls as it desired, existed in its own right, for its own ends. And that entity bore the semblance of a young girl, no more than in her earliest teens, with dark brown hair and melting brown eyes and a sweet voice that could go from pleading entreaties to shrill curses in less than a second's time. And those who encountered her would have more than enough reason to regret it. Those who survived, anyway.

Leland and David DID survive, in case you were wondering, but it was a close run thing. There had been some incident the following day, not revealed to any outside the family and only a select few within, but one that left Leland battered and bruised, his blue eyes no longer calm and sure, but bewildered and hurt. David, though unbruised physically, seemed shaken to his very core, anguished by some inner torment, seemingly hesitant to even touch Leland in comfort or sympathy but adamantly refusing to leave his side as well, hovering protectively, his every action seeming to beg forgiveness for some unnamed offense.

The two men had demanded an audience with David's parents, one that devolved into appalled accusations by David of them concealing the truth about Agnes, about the history of the family, that house. Oh, yes, now he had a much better idea of that, after Agnes had appeared to gloat over the damage she'd instigated, to reveal far more than David had ever been privy to before.

There were tearful protests from Marianne, her earnest claim that "no great inheritance comes without SOME price, David!" 

Claude sat motionless in his chair, his vacant eyes fixed on the portrait of Agnes, that quietly-smiling face now contorted in vicious satisfied amusement at the scene. No one noticed the drool coming from the corner of his mouth, not til the two men departed and Marianne turned to him, demanding his support in her decision all those years ago - to take the inheritance, knowing the cost; to hide that from him and from the others. Marianne had to resort to finding her comfort not in her husband, now beyond giving that, beyond doing anything but jerkily signing whatever she put in front of him, at the place she pointed to, but in the misty form of her younger daughter, nodding her serene approval, promising SHE would take care of things from now on. Well, Marianne found no great fault with that, as she'd been promised things would go on much as before, her own comfort not being reduced in any manner.

And upon the hurried departure of the two men not an hour after that confrontation, everyone had witnessed the odd collapse of the huge tree at the end of the drive, one that had stood for as long as anyone living could remember, one any would have swore would stand long after THEY had been long gone. The mass had caught them and their horses in a roar of dirt and torn roots and mangled branches. The horses had to be put down for their injuries. Leland, although injured himself, had been able to drag the stunned David out before the flying hooves struck him, but both men refused to re-enter the house, and after their injuries had been bound, there on the drive, insisted on being loaded into the family carriage without delay and driven to David's lodgings in the city. 

They never returned to Tremaine House, David and Leland, instead setting sail for parts unknown before the end of the week. While they steadfastly clung to each other, refused to let Agnes or what had happened destroy them, what they had, they never told anyone else (other than in a letter to Patrice) what had happened that night, or what they'd seen that fateful day - the figure of a sweetly-smiling young girl waving at them from the upper window of the house, blowing little air kisses at them and then giggling madly. Even from that distance, Leland swore, for the rest of his life, that he'd heard her voice promising "love forever true, Leland, that belongs to us, you and me. Next time David won't stop me, and you won't want him to, for you will bear nothing but hatred for him and his love! Next time you will be mine! I swear it!"

The books, the journals? They disappeared from the girl's bedroom, somehow finding their former places in the hidden spots in the house. Waiting, perhaps, for the next Agnes to arrive, though that might take some time. Well enough, time had little meaning here.

Patrice left as well, to start her new life in a place where her pets now flourished and lived long happy lives, where her children and husband were untroubled by vengeful, whispering wraiths. Somehow, the letter she received from David came as no great surprise, though it marshalled her to even firmer resolve.

She'd urged her mother to leave Tremaine House, taking Claude with her, but found the woman quite content in the richness that surrounded her. Patrice had also urged also that the journals, the books, be searched out and destroyed, but that was met with open horror in the letter her mother sent in return to that appeal - "that is our history, Patrice! It would be unthinkable!" 

Claude had no comment, of course; he opened his mouth only to eat and drink these days, to move only when assisted by the servants to shuffle from one place to another. Marianne found she was comfortable with that as well; much less trouble, you see.

The suggestion from Marianne, in due course, upon hearing that Patrice was expecting, that - should the child be a girl - Patrice should name her newborn daughter Agnes, in honor of her unfortunate younger sister, was met with hysterical laughter and a stark refusal, and nothing her parent could say would make her change her mind. Nor did she let her parents, either of them, anywhere near her children, not even for a glimpse, not trusting that Agnes might not somehow ride in on their coattails.

And the years went by, and the house was sometimes occupied, sometimes not. Well, in one way, of course, the house was ALWAYS occupied, though for Agnes it was often a quiet time - a time during which she studied the journals and books and dreamed and re-lived her vengence, waiting the return of her 'forever love'.


	2. "Think Maybe We Got A Problem"

It was a pretty standard mission for Garrison and his men - parachute in, make their way to a certain spot, infiltrate a gathering of individuals who were leaning toward helping the Nazis in return for various favors, including redistribution of the land and possessions of those who'd lost those (and more) to the invaders. Well, there were a few additional touches, of course; there always were. One thing the guys had to admit - life with Garrison was never dull - he was what was laughingly called 'an over-achiever'. In this case, they were all going to be kept busy, something for everybody, perhaps Goniff more than anyone. 

As Casino snarked, tilting back on the rear two legs of his chair, "we drop in, all decked out in our fancy clothes. Sticky-Fingers here lifts the keys from what's-his-name, opens that side wing for me, puts the keys back; then lifts that envelope from the joker with the beard, grabs that pillbox with the film inside it, heads back to see what he can grab to eat in the kitchen, probably does a little shopping on the side. I pop the safe, with my amazing skill, lift those plans, drop in the fake ones, get out without anyone seeing me. Beautiful, here, he plays the highfalutin big shot and layin' out the charm, seeing whose panties he can charm his way into while pretending to 'supervise the operation'. YOU try to get this Monclaire bozo to spill his guts, probably coming up with another two or three things for us to do 'since we're already over here'. And the Indian . . . I forget, kid, just what ARE you supposed to be doing?" he taunted his teammate.

Chief glanced over from where he was, once again, testing the edge on his blade, totally deadpan. Casino had been prodding him off and on for the past few days, ever since they'd returned from leave, and while he was putting up with it, not letting it rile him, it was getting a little old. It wasn't HIS fault that blonde had decided she preferred him over Casino, now was it? Or that she'd turned an over-nighter into a full day and a half of horizontal (and otherwise) exercises so he'd barely made it back to the car in time to head back to the Mansion. Wasn't like it happened very often. Sometimes he wondered just what Casino was REALLY so pissed about. Wasn't like the safecracker hadn't seen any action; the blonde had that friend who'd been more than willing to take up the slack.

"I keep anyone from putting a bullet in you while you're playing tickle-me with that safe, Pappy," he offered dryly. "Of course, you think I should be off doing something else," he shrugged, "I can do that, too. Maybe help Goniff in the kitchen, grab a quick snack. Makes me no difference."

"Considering the number of guards on that wing, Casino, you'd better hope Chief is exactly where he is supposed to be, doing what he's supposed to be doing," Garrison scolded. Yeah, he'd noted some tension beyond the usual teasing and prodding; he just hoped they'd keep it under control til they had the free time to deal with whatever the hell it was.

"And Actor had better NOT be doing anything of the kind," giving the aloof Italian a stern look of warning. From the look of wounded innocence on Actor's face, that was the very LAST thing on his mind. Unfortunately, 'innocence' wasn't really Actor's forte, as the failure of that expression clearly showed, and the ladies WERE a major weakness of his.

Of course, by the sly grin on Casino's face, he knew that's exactly where Chief would be, covering for him. Hell, the Indian always had his back; it was just fun ragging him a little. And he STILL didn't know what the hell had happened in London, or why he was still kinda sore about it. So the kid got lucky; he had the right, sure. But still . . .

As for Actor, though, his keeping his mind on the job - that much was in doubt, as it always was. Talented? Hell yeah! - but the faintest whiff of a woman and the man's concentration took a serious hit.

"And the Limey? You tell HIM he's not supposed to put his patty-paws on anything that doesn't belong to him?" Casino asked, really pushing in an effort to reduce the increasing tension in the room. Well, that last-minute drop-in lecture and harranging by some yahoo from Housing really had everyone snarling by the time Garrison strode in and found out what was going on. Of course, watching Garrison get rid of the guy in double-time was amusing, but the tightened nerves and resentment were still palpable in the air.

Goniff gave him a totally inscrutable look from under his lashes, one that could have meant anything from "up yours, Casino!' to 'already got a shopping list made out in my 'ead. That place, likely 'as all kinds of things!', but most likely just meant 'you REALLY want to get the Warden stirred up, you numbskull? Won't do the retirement fund any good doing that!'

"Goniff is going to be too busy to even LOOK at anything that doesn't belong to him. The timing on this one is going to be tight, real tight," Garrison admitted, although giving a warning look at his pickpocket, just in case. That look of wounded innocence he got in return was much more convincing than what Actor had attempted. Not that Garrison WAS convinced, not as well as he knew his pickpocket, but most outsiders would have been.

The abandoned manor house had not been their destination, merely a convenient place to stop for shelter during a wait for their target to arrive in the nearby town. That General Monclaire had been delayed, the whole gathering put on hold for forty-eight hours, had been an annoyance, put a spoke in Garrison's carefully-timed plan, but at least, they were someplace warm and dry, with the opportunity to search out food and liquid refreshment. The house was unoccupied, obviously had been for a very long time, but as they crossed the threshold, they felt as welcomed as if they were long-lost sons by the surprisingly-intact manor house, and they all sighed a breath of relief. It could have been far worse, they told themselves. 

They spent the first night on edge, listening to every sound, but by morning were beginning to relax somewhat. A fast rummaging around found a few bottles of wine, but little else in the way of sustenance.

Garrison sent Chief and Casino to scout around for food and supplies, Actor heading into the nearby village to gather information, and he settled down to go over Goniff's essential role, well, roles, in the upcoming job. 

"Pay attention, Goniff!" Garrison said, noting the pickpocket's attention had once again drifted to the gallery of portraits on the wall of the library. They seemed to hold some fascination for the man. 

Garrison had noticed those portraits himself, but they made him uneasy for some reason, and he had turned his back to the ones on the far wall, even shifting the layout of the map to remove them from his line of vision.

"Am, really, but 'ave to wonder about all these people, you know. Who they were, if any are still alive, likely to be upset about us just taking over their 'ouse," Goniff insisted, turning from the portrait of a girl in a rose-sprigged dress, her sweet smile inviting him to smile back at her, invited him to come closer, much closer. 

Her smile made him uncomfortable for some reason, and he frowned, perplexed. It was almost like the looks he'd get sometimes when some bird was thinking about chatting him up and not likely to take a laughing refusal all that well, no matter how he already had as much on his plate as he could rightly handle, between Meghada and Craig.

{"Now, there's an odd thought,"} he told himself, shaking his head and turning his eyes and his attention back to Garrison and the job ahead. 

It didn't seem too bad, just lots to get done, with the timing a little tricky, and he had leaned over to take a closer look at the hastily-sketched map laid out on the table, trying to get the distances down. Garrison hadn't said anything for the past couple of minutes, perhaps letting the pickpocket take in the details of that meandering country house they'd be headed to as soon as they heard the target was within reach.

"Don't much like that last bit, 'ave to say. Gonna be a real stretch doing the fancy fingers bit with the old bloke's assistant, then meeting up with Chiefy and Casino, then all the rest, then 'ightailing it all the way back over to the kitchens like I'd never been anywhere other than the dining room or that 'allway. Think maybe . . .

"When I want you to think, I'll say so! YOU just need to go along, do what I tell you! And, speaking of that . . .!!!"

Goniff turned his head, incredulous at that harsh reprimand, a reprimand that somehow turned into a sly suggestive growl, but he never got out the first questioning words.

The first Goniff realized something was truly amiss was when Craig Garrison threw his arm around Goniff's waist, literally lifted him from his feet and threw him into a wall, the Englishman's head slamming into the immovable structure with enough force to daze him.

What followed was enough to daze him even further, would perhaps have left him helpless to fight back against the sudden attack, had he not taken an incredulous look into Garrison's fevered eyes. {"Brown??! 'Is eyes aint supposed to be brown, they're suposed to be green! W'at the 'ell??!"}

That gave him the strength to shake away the cobwebs, take in his new position flat on his back, Garrison straddling his waist, reaching forward with one hand to grab his wrists to prevent any further struggles. That was good, he NEEDED to start focusing, since another quick blow sent his head far to one side, and it was with difficulty he heard the unlikely demands being made past the ringing in his ears. Demands spoken in a harsh voice, with a smug assurance that those demands would be met, if not out of willing compliance, then out of fear, or inevitably, out of lack of ability to do anything else against the force Garrison was obviously eager to apply, force demonstrated by the again-upraised fist.

Now, theoretically, other than the smashing-about, there was nothing in the basic outline that Goniff would have refused, not with Garrison, anyway, at least if they weren't in the middle of a mission on foreign soil. But sheer common sense had dictated that was something that would never happen - they'd both agreed on that, right from the beginning. 

But just as much to the point, there had never been anything of force or coercion between them, certainly not violence - a sating of mutual desire, yes, but as a part of the sharing of deep affection and caring between two men equal in their own minds (at least in their unofficial hours, when Craig Garrison was free to be 'Craig', not 'the Warden'). 

That gloating superiority in those eyes, the dismissive sneer, the cold demands - none of that was the Craig Garrison Goniff knew. This, this was someone, something totally unlike that, totally unprecedented. Someone as unlike Craig Garrison as would have been his mowing down by machine gun of innocent civilians in a peaceful London street. 

It was that thought, that and the equally inexplicable changing of those sparkling green eyes to a deep dark seething brown, a malicious smile that made him take a quick look back at that portrait. That gave Goniff the quick kick in the pants that brought him back to his senses and let him take action. Well, he'd come up against a thing or two in the time since he joined the team, one or two even before, enough he wasn't so stunned by the appearance of the 'what couldn't be' as some might have been. In fact, if you'd asked him, he would have been the first to give you a disgusted "w'at can't be 'as an uncomfortable way of turning out to be something w'at CAN be, and easier and faster than you'd think!"

Of course, he wasn't in the best position to deal with whatever the hell was going on, and frankly he'd never been overly good with the hand-to-hand, oft driving the long-suffering Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins to sheer despair of his EVER learning. And none could deny that Garrison was highly-talented in that line.

Still, after one painful incident, Meghada had insisted he learn a few things NOT in the Sergeant Major's more conventional repertoire. "You have to know how to defend yourself better, whether your opponent is bigger, OR smaller, laddie! You're willing to fight to defend the others! Well, how can you defend THEM if you don't keep yourself in one piece first, eh??" and she'd shown him, and made him practice, and now he blessed her for her stubborn pushing and nagging, no matter how he'd complained and pouted then.

A fast recentering, a quick shifting of position, and a sudden lurch that caught his aggressor totally offguard, and it was Garrison now flat on his back, though the lust obviously not dissipating, if anything increasing with the shift in power. The fevered demands might have changed, but the intensity had, if anything, grown.

"Craig, ruddy 'ell! Calm down!!" the Englishman ordered harshly, but to no avail. Finally, with a frustrated groan, he did what he needed to do to give Garrison relief, quickly and simply, in the aftermath watching the dark brown bleed from those eyes he loved so much, watching the clear green return, along with an overwhelming load of emotions that would need to be sorted out once they had time. He figured that wouldn't be easy, probably not with anyone, but certainly not with Garrison. Still, that was for later. The question was, what the hell to do about the 'now'.

It was more of an aside, an unconscious twinge that caused Goniff to glance up once again, to see the empty portrait frame and the gently-curved figure standing there not three feet away, then fading, then gone. Those same dark brown eyes, but with a malevolent pursing of that tender mouth, indignant crossing of the young arms clad in that rose-sprigged dress. He wasn't sure if he was imagining that, or that hissing promise lingering in the still air, "next time, Leland - next time." In any case, the combination made him shudder and keep a cautious eye on his surroundings while trying to get Garrison back to some semblance of normality. {"Yes, the picture's the same; she's back there, if she ever left. Blimey, some of the things we run into!"}

"One thing's for ruddy sure, we need to get the 'ell outta this place!" he muttered out loud, taking another incredulous look at the portrait, those dark brown eyes now oh-too-familiar, that smile worthy of another half dozen shudders of the first magnitude. He might get an argument from the other three when they returned from sussing out the place, but he'd just have to put his foot down, or get Garrison to, anyway. He, for one, didn't want to be anywhere NEAR here for whenever that 'next time' came around!

He paused to snarl out loud at the portrait, obviously confusing an already-confused Garrison, "and the name's not Leland!" He'd almost told her 'my name's Goniff, not ruddy Leland!' but then thought better of letting her know that. Of course, she'd probably heard it from Garrison and the others, but seemed it would be different than HIM telling her, direct. Too much like he was acknowledging something between them; he figured that just wasn't the smartest thing to do.

She only giggled at him knowingly, "silly Leland. It's me, remember, Agnes. Love forever true, that's what we have; just like I promised, just like I told you! Whatever you decide to call yourself, I know you - I will always know you. And next time? Ah, next time you WILL be mine, not his! NEVER his! I'll kill him first!"

Goniff felt the cold sweat trickle down his spine, heard the distant voices that told him the others had returned. Quickly giving Garrison a worried look, he tried to think of some explanation for what had to look exceedingly odd. Of course, when the others arrived, when he was trying to explain to the others, he tidied it all up a bit - well, a hell of a lot, actually, and Garrison didn't dispute any of what he said. 

In fact, Garrison wasn't saying much of anything at all, still trying to wrap his head around what he remembered, thought maybe he'd imagined, and trying to balance that against the visible damage showing on his pickpocket. Of course, that voice hadn't helped. {"Something about 'love forever true'??"}

Turns out Goniff didn't have to try very hard in his convincing. With Garrison trying to pull himself together, his flushed and disoriented state, Goniff showing physical damage, all that did support at least the reality that SOMETHING had happened, if perhaps nothing so unworldly as was being claimed.

A few words into Goniff's explanation, urged by his hesitant jerk of the head toward the portrait, and Actor had gone to the picture, read the name plate and drew in a sharp breath. 

Casino was several lengths into a lecture on "dumb Limeys and their runaway imagination when they're left on their own. You probably droned on to the Warden to where he went to sleep outta pure boredom, then tripped over the rug or something. Sheesh, Warden, can't you control him better than that??"

Actor just shook his head, swallowed heavily and backed away from the portrait.

"I've heard of her, this Agnes Portell. And Goniff is correct. We need to leave, now, and not return. And we will take far more care in the leaving than we took in the arriving, for we will not be safe until we are well away. No, I will say no more, not here, but I assure you I am quite serious."

Chief walked a little closer, looking at the picture of the pretty young girl, green parrot on her shoulder, her eyes seeming to follow him as he moved. For his part, he trusted what Goniff had said, Actor's words only strengthening that belief.

"You think she might take on one of us, not just Goniff or the Warden?"

"I do not know. The stories seem to say probably not, still, I do not want to guess wrong, for my information may be incomplete. Come."

And they gathered their things, and watching every shadow, every corner, they made their way out the door. Casino felt a ruffle of even deeper unease, frowned looked over his shoulder, surprised when there wasn't anyone there. There sure had FELT like someone was there, close enough to feel warm breath on his neck.

"Hey, Indian, you hear . . . ". Casino stopped, stared intently at his teammate who was less than two feet away, caught his breath with the sudden advent of a wild mixture of shock and lust. Chief's brown eyes looked different, his dark hair misting, lightening. As the brown eyes bled to pale blue, as the hair became almost silvery in the odd light filling the courtyard, Casino felt his heartbeat thunder, felt a compulsion to take what was being offered to him. Hell, to take, whether it was being offered or not! To take, and then to punish, to destroy!

"Pappy? You okay?" Chief asked with a deep frown of worry. That look, the determined, even triumphant sneer on Casino's face gave him his answer.

"Hey, Warden. Think maybe we got a problem here," he said urgently, and with one look Garrison knew he was right. Casino was headed for Chief, intent clear on his face, in his posture.

One fast blow behind the ear from Garrison and Casino was down, to be draped over Actor's shoulder, as they all made double-time out and past the stone archway separating the house grounds from the fields and road beyond. There they paused while Casino came round; it had been a light blow, just enough to put him out for a few seconds, but he was certainly going to have a sore neck.

He started complaining, but stopped as he remembered what he'd seen, the thoughts that had come to him. Stopped and shuddered at the remembering, casting a searching look at Chief, wondering just how much he'd said, how much he'd shown. How much he had to apologize for. A quick sharp nod of acknowledgement, a quirk of those usually somber lips, and Casino heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently he'd been forgiven, at least by Chief. He figured it would take HIM a little more time to forgive himself for being controlled that easily. He might never overcome the humiliation of knowing someone, someTHING had read him all that clearly, used what he felt to their advantage.

There was a faint voice, as if someone calling through the rising wind. As one they turned to face the house. 

The small figure in the upstairs window was laughing, waving at them in a mocking way, blowing air kisses to Goniff and Garrison. And it wasn't only those two men who heard the voice that promised, "next time, Leland. Next time you'll change your mind, unless you want to watch him die." And her gaze shifted to Chief and Casino, just as cold, just as promising, and they all couldn't get out of there fast enough.

It was in a cold ruin of a barn, surrounded by soaked and soured hay that Actor shared what he had learned from an old man in a tavern in Brazil, told the stories he'd heard about Agnes Portell and Tremaine House, for he decided that must have been where they'd ended up, all by chance, by the nameplate on that portrait. 

And if the stories weren't as accurate as they might have been, the one who'd recounted those stories having heard them only second-and-third-hand for the most part, still they made the men avoid sleep too deeply, made them more vigilant than they would have been otherwise. Made more than one of them wish they'd been carrying explosives with them, enough to pull that manor house down into a smoking rubble, that portrait into total nothingness.

"And he swore to the truth of it, claiming that he was the grandson of Patrice, the older sister to Agnes Portell. It was his mother that Agnes' parents wanted to be named after their dead daughter, something that his grandmother refused to let happen. She had never gone back to Tremaine House, sternly ordered her family to do the same. She had kept in contact with her brother and his friend, though, whom Agnes had sought revenge upon, had tried to kill."

Casino was still looking doubtful; Chief was at his most stoic, but Garrison was still not really reacting, was far too quiet.

"So, what? He took it all as gospel, this grandson?"

"No, he had more than a few doubts. It is a difficult tale to believe, you must admit. So he doubted, enough that when he received word he was next in line to inherit the Tremaine estate, he made the trip to see the house, walk the grounds. 

"He took his best friend Richard with him; they were intending to go on a walking tour afterwards, you see. Frederick told me, and I'll admit he was quite a ways into his cups by then, that on the first night there, he was drawn to the portrait gallery, especially the portrait of Agnes Portell and David Portell. It turned out to be a very short visit. They fled, he and his friend, before morning, when Frederick found himself trying to assault his friend, fully with the intention of beating him to death afterwards. He said he could feel that, what he intended, and that he could hear a girl's voice directing him, urging him on. 

"He kept telling me, with the most haunted look in his eyes, "I could tell by the portrait that I was the very image of David Portell, same hair, same eyes. Well, my grandmother HAD always claimed that. And Richard, my friend? He was a blue-eyed blond, as my grandmother said Leland was. She called us by those names, too, 'David', 'Leland'.

"We were not as lucky as David and Leland, however. The damage was too great, the feelings too strong, and of course, for us, we WERE just good friends, nothing more. Nothing there of a deeper intensity to fight the reality of what had happened. Richard never believed the stories, or me, my accounting of what had happened and why, you see; he was deaf from birth and couldn't hear her voice, her damnable voice. Richard has never spoken to me, will not even acknowledge my presence if we meet, not since we left that place. Fifty years now, and we've lived not a mile from each other, and never a word between us." 

"You believe all that shit, Beautiful?" Casino asked, doubt mixed with growing, if reluctant, belief. Well, the picture in his mind, of Chief's dark eyes turning that pale blue, dark hair misting to pale gold, that was enough to shake his steady disbelief in such things.

"Don't so much care if YOU believe, Casino. Telling you right out, I believe! I saw 'er, 'eard 'er, rightly enough. I know what she did, tried to 'ave 'appen. Just 'ope she can't leave that ruddy place! Don't want to find 'er standing there watching me again, smiling that smile, whispering at me." From the look on Goniff's face, that was nothing less than the truth.

And Garrison slowly nodded, and spoke, his voice rusty as if it hadn't been used in a long time. "And I believe it, too. I saw her, heard her, FELT her inside me, pushing me, trying to force me . . . ". His voice cracked, and his eyes were tormented, "and she would have won, if Goniff hadn't managed to break away, turn the tide."

In the quiet of the night, a low anguished voice, no more than the barest of whispers.

"Goniff? How do I even . . .? I'm sorry! I swear . . ."

"Shhhh, go back to sleep. We can talk about it w'en we get back 'ome, if you 'ave to, which knowing you, we probably will. Not that there's any need, not as far as I'm concerned. After all, wasn't you; oh, your fist maybe, your weight, but not YOU. I KNOW that; expect YOU to get your stubborn self around knowing that too. Ain't responsible for EVERY ruddy mess we run into, you know!" came an answering whisper, half stern scolding, half reassuring teasing, all Goniff. 

It wouldn't do the entire job, of course, being how Garrison took things to heart, Goniff knew THAT as well, but it would hopefully be enough til there was more time, more privacy to deal with things as they needed to be dealt with. Right now they had a mission to complete, the team to get back home safely. In any case, Goniff found himself sending a silent snarl of triumph back in the direction of Tremaine House. {"Missed the ruddy mark this time, little girl!"} sincerely hoping she'd never get another chance, not with him and Craig, not with anyone else she mistook for that 'Leland' bloke or her brother David. That faint hiss of rage he heard in the back of his mind told him not to count too heavily on that.

He figured he'd have a little talk with Meghada when they got home, about any special wards she or her sisters knew of, that would hold up against witches what wouldn't stay dead. He knew she'd mentioned that Druids had a tendency not to stay as dead as you'd like them to, but he'd never heard her mention witches could do the same. 

In the meantime, he eased himself to a seated position, moved closer to a now-sleeping Garrison, watching the flickering shadows for any sign of an intruder. He figured he could do without a night's sleep if it gave them an early warning; he figured it was well worth it. 

Chief, taking the first watch by the door, gave him a questioning look, but didn't protest. If Goniff figured a second guard was necessary, he'd be the last to argue.

The mission went like clockwork, although Goniff had a bead of sweat across his forehead by the time he got back into position after his various parts of the job were done. But, yes, he'd snaffled the right keys, picked the right pockets, snatched that box with the film, AND managed a little item or two for the retirement fund.

They exited on time, took off, headed back the way they came. And if they went well out of their way to get to the exit point, avoiding Tremaine House and the property attached, no one on the team questioned that.

Somehow, all the trouble and danger and mishaps connected to their mission took on a new perspective, something to be taken more in stride. And by mutual agreement, the official report didn't include the stop in that deserted manor house, much less the events that took place there. 

And by the time they returned home, that promised conversation between Craig Garrison and Goniff turned out not to be necessary either. It seems they, like Leland and David, had a strong enough bond not to let a little thing like a malignant witch named Agnes get in the way - a bond strong enough not to need a lot of emoting and self-flagellating and cries of 'mea culpa' to resolve. 

Although the talk with Meghada DID happen. Goniff and Garrison never knew what steps she'd taken, just took her grim reassurance that they could be at ease, at least about sweet Agnes. Knowing Meghada, they figured that was all they needed to know. They both figured they were probably better off that way.


	3. Epilogue

And in a small village, a quivering lad, smudged with smoke and ash, sat at a round wooden table, accepting with trembling hands the mug of strong drink being shoved at him. Finally, when he'd stopped shaking enough to talk coherently, he told a tale that would join the string of other stories told of Tremaine House. The LAST of the stories, though certainly not the last of the retelling.

"And arguing they were, right fiercely, too. I was afraid they'd turn and see me, though I kept well out of sight. Then there was flashing and thunder and screeching and all else, and I ran and ran til I got to that stone arch and hid, watched from there. There was a rumbling, and smoke and fire, and then she came walking out the front door as calm as anything," he said in wide-eyed wonder.

"The girl, Agnes?" the barman asked in a low voice. Agnes was well known, by reputation anyway. There wasn't a one who'd not recognize the young girl, she had lived in legend among them for so very long.

A slow shaking of that trembling head, "no, the other one. A woman grown, long red hair twisting and blowing in the wind like it was alive, walking slow and even, brushing her hands together like she'd been cleaning the ashes from the fireplace and gotten them dirty. She got to the arch, saw me, and nodded, like she was saying hello. I thought I've be afrightened of her, but I wasn't, she had kind eyes. Reminded me of my mother some. 

"Run along home," she tells me. "There's nothing to see here. It's over and done. She pushed too far this time. Her kind, they never understand that, you see. That there IS a 'too far', IS or WILL BE someone not theirs for the claiming, for the toying with. Ah well, at least it's done."

"And then, she walked away and there was dust all swirling around and it got in my eyes so I was trying to wipe them out. Then there was a big screeching, like a big eagle-hawk right up next to my ear, and the wind it blew me off my feet, and . . . she was gone, like she'd never been. Thought I'd maybe imagined it all, but when I got my eyes clear, there's the big house, or what's left of it. All sunk into the ground, it is, nothing standing above, just smoke and ash flying and settling."

And while they all resolved to check on the boy's story, it was by common decree that the morning would be soon enough to discover the truth. Safer, most likely.


End file.
